


Open it Back Up and Let it Bleed

by missparker



Series: Blood on the Floor [3]
Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Sharing a Bed, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missparker/pseuds/missparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sleeps better with Brenda and that’s all there is to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open it Back Up and Let it Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> This is my 100th story posted to my ao3 account so I thought I'd try something I hadn't before... LADIES. Thanks to Beth and Zowie for always holding my whiny little hand.

_I'm not yours, you're not mine_  
_Hope you find love in time_

**Red Red Rose - The Weepies**

*

The morning that Sharon finally sucks it up and cleans out the dresser and closet in Rusty’s room is the same evening that Sharon finds a rent check from Brenda on the kitchen counter when she comes home late. 

She picks it up, confused. It’s an arbitrary amount, a guess on Brenda’s part. Maybe Brenda seriously underestimates the mortgage on this place but Sharon thinks it’s that she’s probably paying two rents now. After all, she hasn’t moved in, really. She’s just staying with Sharon. Sharon doesn’t expect rent money from her while she’s doing Sharon the unspoken favor of not making her be alone while Rusty is away. While Brenda’s trying to figure out her marriage. 

She puts the check back where she found it and decides she’ll just go to bed.

She’s quiet opening her bedroom door, moving through the darkness but when she flips on the closet light and glances over at the bed, Brenda isn’t in it. She worries for an agonizing moment that Brenda has gone home to her husband. That she’d left money on the counter like Sharon was some sort of expensive indiscretion and that Brenda has come to her senses. Worry and hurt and fear make her rush down the hallway and open Rusty’s door hard enough that the doorknob bangs into the wall. 

It doesn’t wake Brenda up. The woman sleeps like the dead. 

Sharon gives herself a few moments to look over Brenda's small frame - the curve of her shoulders, the sweep of her hair, her bare leg on top of the comforter and then Sharon makes herself go back into the hallway, presses herself against the cool wall and tips her head back, eyes to the ceiling, heart in her feet. 

She sleeps poorly that night. Twenty years of sleeping alone and she’s gotten so used to sharing her bed with Brenda’s slight frame and wild hair that now she can’t sleep on her own. It’s embarrassing. 

Their nights together are a wicked little secret they’ve been keeping. She’s learned more about Brenda between midnight and six am than she managed to learn in three years of tailing her division. In the darkness of Sharon’s bedroom, Brenda blossoms. She confesses all sorts of things like she’s grateful for the chance to be on the other side of the questions. She talks about her mother, she talks about Pope, she talks about her time in D.C., she talks about how she misses something she can’t quite put her finger on. Living a life where something is always missing, just out of reach. How it feels to need something and never quite get enough.

It’s, perhaps, not normal for two grown women to live their lives like they’re in a perpetual sleepover but Sharon Raydor is 58 years old and simply can’t care about normal any longer. She sleeps better with Brenda and that’s all there is to it. 

In the morning, Brenda’s already in the kitchen when Sharon drags in feeling like her head is full of stuffing. Brenda doesn’t look too awake either. She’s in the small cotton shorts she favors for pajamas and her brown sweater and she’s watching the coffee drip down into the pot with growing desperation. She jumps when Sharon touches her elbow, spins and presses herself into the corner where two slabs of granite countertop meet. 

“Are you okay?” Sharon asks.

“You just startled me is all,” Brenda says, tugging her sweater around her. 

“I mean,” Sharon says, reaching out for the cupboard to pull mugs down for them. “You never came to bed.”

“Oh,” Brenda says, taking a mug from Sharon. “Well I thought… your note said… it seemed like since the spare room was available…”

Sharon glances at the check still on the counter and she knows Brenda sees her look. “We keep tripping over those suitcases. Everything you own is always wrinkled.”

“I know,” Brenda says.

“I was kicking your clothes out of my room, not you,” Sharon smiles at her in what she hopes is a disarming way. The coffee pot beeps, announcing to the morning that coffee is ready. Brenda lunges for it, pouring some into her mug and then, with a moody expression, pours some for Sharon too. 

“Can we talk about that check?” 

Brenda holds up one finger, sips her coffee once, twice and then nods. “Look, I know it’s probably not enough, but I think I can do better next month.”

“You don’t-”

“It’s just between paying for the place with Fritz and the lawyer, I’m worried that when this all shakes out-”

“What lawyer?” Sharon demands. “Wait, what?”

“I called Gavin,” Brenda says. “About Fritz.”

“Gavin isn’t a divorce lawyer,” Sharon says. “That’s what you’re talking about, right?” 

“It is and I know he’s not, but he recommended me someone and we’ve been workin’ on drawin’ up the papers is all.” She wraps her hands around her mug and nurses it a bit.

“Honey,” Sharon says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m tellin’ you now,” Brenda says. “I haven’t served him yet. I just, I want to get things untangled a little more before I do. I want to feel like I got my feet under me.”

“I’m not taking your money,” Sharon says. 

“Now, wait-”

“No,” Sharon says. “You want to buy groceries, you want to help with the laundry, you want to tip the delivery person fine, whatever, but you don’t have to pay rent.” 

“I-”

“That’s final!” Sharon says. She takes her coffee and leaves Brenda standing in the kitchen, her mouth hanging open. 

When Sharon gets out of the shower, a towel around her hair and another wrapped around her body, Brenda is sitting on the bed, waiting for her. She’s half dressed in a skirt the little camisole that will go under her blouse. Her hair is up but she doesn’t have earrings on or any make up. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“I know,” Sharon says. “I just get worried, you know, that I’ll come home one day and you’ll have changed your mind.”

“I do that a lot, I guess,” Brenda says. “Change my mind.” 

Sharon sighs. She has a bad feeling about this day, too.

oooo

Everyone is staring at her as she swipes her access card to get into the murder room. They’re watching her hard enough that she slows her pace, they’re watching her so intently that she knows they’ve been watching for her for some time. Mike gives her a look that screams _danger_ and Julio greets her with a little shake of his head. She looks up at her office and through the blinds she can see Chief Howard sitting at her desk in her chair.

“Fabulous,” she says. 

“You want me to go in there with you?”

She turns around, surprised to see Andy standing at the ready. Surprised he made the offer at all. It’s been… tense since Brenda had moved in, since Sharon had kissed him and decided that their friendship and professional relationship was more important than anything else they could embark on. He’d taken it like a gentleman, still does his job well and follows orders efficiently but they don’t go to dinner anymore, she hasn’t seen his daughter in ages and probably never will again and they certainly, certainly do not talk about Brenda. 

“Thank you, Andy,” she says. “But no.”

“If you need help,” he says.

“If we hear screaming, we’re coming in there no matter what,” Provenza gripes from his desk. Julio smiles in his menacing way and she feels a surge of affection for her team. She may be going through something, here, but she’s never alone. 

Fritz leans back in her seat when she enters the office. She throws her bag and coat down on an empty chair and then crosses her arms and stares at him. Offers him a mean smile.

“Chief Howard,” she says in a trill tone. “What can Major Crimes do for you today?”

Fritz chuckles, shakes his head. “That isn’t why I’m here, Sharon.”

She and Fritz have always gotten along well enough. At first she felt a sort of kindred spirit to him - the two people who had to deal with the hurricane that was Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson. He’d been a capable liaison when he was still with the Bureau and everyone seems to think he’s doing a fine job now over at Special Ops, especially Commander McGinnis who is generally hard to please. Professionally, she has no problems with Fritz Howard.

It’s just that she doesn’t much like him. 

“Well then what can I do for you?” she says. “Off the record, of course.”

“It’s time for you to send Brenda home,” he says. “This has gone on long enough.”

Sharon clenches her teeth and thinks idly that if she were still in Internal Affairs, she’d make Fritz Howard rue the day he ever joined this force.

“I didn’t borrow your stapler,” she says in a low voice. “She’s not a piece of property that needs returning.” 

“Of course not,” he says. “But if she has no where else to go-”

“Okay,” Sharon says, crossing back to the door and flinging it open. “You need to leave.”

“It’s my marriage on the line,” Fritz hisses. “I would think you of all people would respect the vows of marriage!”

“Me of all people?” Outrage is thick in her throat, it makes the back of her neck feel hot and clammy.

“Look,” Fritz says. “Sharon, let me tell you a little something about Brenda. She’s not interested in love or friendship, she only wants loyalty. She’s using you, that’s all.”

“ _Captain Raydor_ ,” Sharon corrects. “And before you say anything else let me make one thing perfectly clear. I do not control Brenda Johnson, I do not influence her, and I certainly do not spend my time trying to manipulate her behavior. If she wants to move out of my home and return to yours, she will but if she doesn’t, she won’t. Learn to live with it!” 

Fritz narrows his eyes but apparently decides against continuing this conversation because he just says, “Captain,” and walks out of her office, past her division who is all openly staring into her office and down the hall toward the elevators. She lets go of the door, closes her eyes, takes some deep breaths and wills her blood pressure to go back down. 

Someone knocks on her door and when she opens her eyes, Amy is standing there with two cups of coffee in her hands. She extends one to Sharon and Sharon takes it. 

“Thank you,” she says. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Pretty much all of it,” Amy says. 

Sharon drinks the coffee and it’s sweet and creamy and not something she’d order for herself but something she’ll delight in for today. 

“I didn’t know Chief Johnson very well. I think we met once? Twice?” Amy says, shrugging. “So if we need to liaison with SOB in the future, I’m happy to do it.” 

“Thank you, Amy, that’s very thoughtful,” Sharon says. Amy looks at her sympathetically. “I don’t usually hope for murders but…”

“I’ll check to see if Robbery-Homicide needs a hand today,” Amy says. 

Sharon hides out a little for most of the day. She’s working - more productive than ever, perhaps, but hiding. It’s difficult to know her place in all of this. She and Brenda have been living in a bubble but now the bubble is about to burst. Sharon wants what’s best for Brenda but she selfishly hopes that Brenda doesn’t give in to the pressure of Fritz. 

That night, Sharon decides to tell Brenda about Fritz’s visit. It’s not a comfortable topic for her to bring up but she feels unkind keeping the information to herself. Brenda’s home when she gets there, standing in the kitchen barefoot with her long hair in two thick braids over her shoulders. She’s got on her little blue cotton skirt and a t-shirt and looks like she’s been home for awhile.

“I came home sick,” she says. “Headache.”

Sharon narrows her eyes. Brenda is standing at the sink but there’s nothing in it, no mess to clean, no dishes drying in the rack. Her skirt is riding low like it’s a little too big and Sharon can see a strip of skin between the t-shirt and the band of the skirt and the top of her hipbones, jutting.

“Let’s order takeout,” Sharon says. She’s got chicken in the fridge thawed and ready to go but she wants to get something bad for them. Something Brenda will actually eat not just move around on her plate. 

“I’m not hungry, I ate,” Brenda says, running the sponge along the lip of the clean sink.

“Liar,” Sharon says. Brenda is as surprised to hear it as Sharon is that she’d blurted it out. “Look at you. You are wasting away.”

“I’m not keeping things down well, is all,” Brenda says. “I just feel all wound up inside.”

“We could go out,” Sharon says. “Get milkshakes. Easy on your tummy.” 

“I don’t know,” Brenda says. 

“Come on,” Sharon says. “We can have a little chat.” 

Sharon changes into jeans and a long sleeved shirt, pulls on a light jacket. Spring in L.A. can mean 50 degrees or 80 degrees but it’s late enough now that she thinks she’ll be chilly with no sun in the sky. Brenda doesn’t change but Sharon makes her put on a jacket and they drive to one of those hokey diner’s made to look like the 1950s. Little jukeboxes on the tables, greasy food and huge milkshakes. The booths are upholstered in red vinyl and the tables are all formica and it’s not real busy - there are people but they don’t have to wait. 

“You like this place?” Brenda asks, looking around. She is fussing with the end of one of her braids, has been playing with it for the whole drive over. 

“I like milkshakes,” Sharon says. 

They’re not run of the mill milkshakes either, but thick creamy ones made to order. She hands Brenda a laminated menu and her eyes widen as she reads it.

“Oh my,” she says. “Double dark chocolate chip?”

“I like the salted caramel myself, but I’ve never had a bad one,” Sharon says with a small smile. 

“I guess I could probably… try one,” Brenda considers, sliding the menu away from her. 

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” Sharon says. She also orders a plate of fries to sit between them.

“I had a visitor today,” Sharon says. 

“Oh?”

“Deputy Chief Howard,” Sharon says. Brenda sits up, her face already apologetic but Sharon waves that off. “It’s fine, Brenda.”

“Did y’all have a joint operation or-”

“No,” Sharon says. “It was about you.”

“I just… I’ve been tryin’ to be real clear, you know? Really set some boundaries but it’s delicate because of his drinkin’.”

“Is Chief Howard drinking again?” Sharon asks. 

“No,” Brenda says. “But I refuse to be the reason he starts.” 

The waitress comes and puts down the fries and a couple of glasses of water. “Just a minute on the milkshakes, ladies, okay?”

“Thank you,” Sharon says. She nudges the fries toward Brenda. Brenda picks up three and shoves them into her mouth and then quickly goes for her water to soothe the burn. 

“If he drinks, that’s his choice,” Sharon says. “Not your fault. Not your burden.”

Brenda reaches for another fry and this time, blows on it softly before putting it into her mouth.

“What did he say?” Brenda says.

The milkshakes arrive; they each get a tall glass covered with whipped cream and a cherry plus the overflow in big metal cups. Brenda’s finger darts out for a dollop of whipped cream that she brings her lips but she doesn’t look away from Sharon.

“He wants you to come home,” Sharon says. 

“I knew that.”

“He wanted me to send you home,” Sharon says. “To ask you to leave.”

“Oh,” she says.

“I want to make something crystal clear,” Sharon says leaning in. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re here to stay, okay? This?” She waves between them. “This doesn’t have an expiration date and while Fritz Howard outranks me professionally, he has no authority over what happens in my bed.” Sharon clears her throat. “My home.” A small correction. 

Brenda pulls the spoon out of her metal container and spoons some of the dark chocolate milkshake into her mouth. 

Her eyes close in pleasure.

“Got it,” she says.

oooo

Ricky calls on a Friday morning and tells Sharon that he’s in the car and he’ll be there by dinner time. 

“What?” she says. “As in today?”

“I said I was going to make more of an effort,” Ricky says. “I’m sorry I haven’t been up since… since Rusty moved out but I’ve cleared my weekend and I’m gonna make it up to you!”

“Oh, honey,” Sharon says, looking around her office helplessly. “Oh I’m just so thrilled about that. Really.” 

“See you in a couple hours,” Ricky says and hangs up. 

She flaps her hands a little in the air and tries to decide what to do. When she looks through the glass to the murder room, Mike is looking at her like she’s lost her mind. She puts herself back into her chair and swivels it so her back is to him and grabs her office phone. She’d had Buzz change the speed dial the other day after she realized that the first preset still dialed Fritz Howard’s cell phone. 

Brenda’s office is number two.

Brenda’s administrative assistant answers.

“Tell her it’s Sharon,” she says.

“Sharon?”

“Captain Raydor!” she huffs. “L.A.P.D.!”

“Hold please,” says the assistant and then, only a few minutes later, Brenda answers.

“I have a cell phone you know,” Brenda says and she sounds like her mouth is full of something, which is a good sign. 

“I know, I know, but that building you work in is like a signal vortex and I’m never sure when I’m going to lose you and this is important.”

“What happened?” Brenda says. “Did Fritz come talk to you again?”

“No,” Sharon says. “No. No no no.” 

“Well then, what?”

“My son is coming,” Sharon says.

“For heaven’s sake, Sharon!” Brenda says. “That ain’t bad news!”

“He’ll be here tonight,” Sharon says. “More like in five or six hours.” 

“So?” she says. 

“So I haven’t told him that you’ve moved in,” Sharon says.

“Well I know we haven’t put out an ad in the papers or anything but I didn’t think it was a state secret,” she says. 

“You’re saying that if your father popped in and saw our living arrangement as is, he’d have no issues with what he saw?” she hisses. 

Brenda swallows audibly and then says, “Tell you what, I’ll run home and just make Rusty’s room look a little more… lived in. How’s that? It’s almost lunch time, I can do that.”

“Yes,” she says. “Thank you.”

“I’ll even sleep on the couch for a few nights,” she says. “It’ll be nostalgic for me.”

“I’m not… Brenda, it’s not that I’m embarrassed about anything, it’s just Ricky doesn’t really deal with change all that well. When Rusty moved in-”

“It’s okay,” Brenda says. “Our secret. We’re on the same team, I promise. Cross my heart.”

“Okay,” Sharon says, finally letting out the breath she feels like she’s been holding since her son called. “Thanks.”

“I’ll talk to you soon, Captain Raydor,” Brenda says, her voice changing just slightly. “Bye now.”

“Bye,” she says. 

They roll out around two in the afternoon, taking over a case from Hollywood Division once a third body is found. Nobody likes it - Hollywood Division doesn’t want to hand over their case and Major Crimes certainly doesn’t want to pick up this disaster on a Friday afternoon. 

She texts Ricky and says they’ve caught a case so she might be later than dinner.

And by the time she looks at her phone again, it’s almost five o’clock and Ricky’s reply says, _I have a key. See you at home._

She calls Brenda. 

“I’m just on my way home, where are you?” she asks. 

“Don’t answer your phone if you’re driving!” she scolds.

“I got the bluetooth thingy to sync up with the car, now what do you want?” 

“You’re going to beat me home,” Sharon says. Andy and Provenza have gone with the bodies to the morgue, Mike is still overseeing the crime scene. Julio is her ride and is waiting for her by the car, leaning against it and making no effort not to watch her make this phone call. 

“I almost always do,” Brenda says. 

“Ricky will be there any minute,” Sharon says. 

“I’ll be real polite, I promise,” she says airily. 

“It’s not that-”

“If you don’t want me to go home, Sharon, now is the time to say it,” Brenda says.

“No, no,” Sharon says. “I just… I’m not used to my personal life being this complex.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Brenda says. “Mine always is. We’ll be fine.” 

Sharon looks at her phone and then up at Julio who shrugs and pulls open the passenger door for her to get in.

“Women, am I right?” he says and shuts the door before she can say a single word.

oooo

It’s not that she doesn’t love her son, but she drags her feet getting home. It’s a Schrödinger's cat situation. Either things are going fine with Brenda and her son or they’re a disaster and she won’t know until she walks through that door. She sits in her car in the parking garage for a moment and then shakes it off and heads upstairs. 

The door is unlocked - Brenda is terrible about locking the door behind her - and she pushes it open slowly and is met with a warm, delicious smell and the sound of laughter. 

“The cat is alive!” she says. 

“Mom?” 

Ricky rushes over from the kitchen and puts his arms around her. “Hi,” she says.

“I thought you might never come home,” he says. “Brenda and I just finished dinner but we saved you some.”

“Oh, lovely,” she says. Brenda is holding a mostly empty glass of wine and looks rosy and relaxed. 

“Mr. Raydor, here, was just telling me about the time you caught him skipping church to see a girl,” Brenda says.

“She made me spend my entire summer tutoring middle schoolers in math,” Ricky said. 

“One summer,” Sharon says, setting her bag down. “Not so bad.”

“You got off easy, believe me,” Brenda says. “Your mother gives as good as she gets.”

Sharon smiles uneasily. 

“How was work? How was your case?” Ricky asks. 

Sharon waves it all away. 

“Go change,” Brenda says, standing. “I’ll fix you a plate.” 

“I will, thank you,” Sharon says. “And then, honey, we can talk all about you.” 

“Sure,” Ricky says. 

Her room is quiet and she closes the door behind her. The bed isn’t made but Brenda had pulled up the comforter and her spare reading glasses are gone from her nightstand. Sharon sheds her jacket and unzips her skirt, kicks her shoes into the closet. Her slip goes into the hamper, she peels off her pantyhose and choses a t-shirt from her drawer and pulls on a pair of jeans. She’d just as soon put on pajama pants but she feels like she has a guest with Ricky in the house. 

Dinner is lasagna, one of those frozen ones that are actually pretty good for not being homemade. 

“We went to the market,” Brenda says. “There was just nothing in the house.”

“We’ve both been working a lot,” Sharon says. “When Rusty was here it was easier to… to make other things a priority, but-”

“Hey,” Ricky says. “It’s fine. It’s good.”

The lasagna isn’t hot anymore, but it’s still warm and there’s a little pile of ceasar salad to go with it and a slice of garlic bread. It’s church potluck food, easy to put together but still tastes like comfort. 

“Brenda says things have been good here?” Ricky asks. Brenda rises silently, moves from the dining table to the kitchen to start working on cleaning up the kitchen. It’s a calculated move, one meant to give Sharon and her son some space. She can make enough noise to give the illusion of privacy while still listening in - something she does for work all the time. 

“She’s been staying here,” Sharon says. “That’s what you mean?”

“No,” Ricky says. “Well, I just mean I know that what happened with Rusty wasn’t ideal and I’m glad you aren’t alone.” 

“Thank you.”

“I should’ve come sooner, I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve come right away.”

“I don’t expect you guys to drop everything anytime something unfortunate happens,” Sharon says. 

“I want to be there for you,” he says. “That’s all.”

“I know, honey,” she says. “You are. I know I can call.”

“But you don’t call,” he says. 

“Neither do you,” she says back. 

“Well,” he says with a disarming smile. “That’s the Raydor way, isn’t it?”

It’s the O’Dwyer way, too, is the problem. Lack of communication comes at her children from both sides and isn’t something she can blame exclusively on Jack. 

“We are as God made us,” she says philosophically and then fills her mouth with food so she doesn’t have to keep talking about it.

“Your friend Brenda is a charmer,” he says, lowering his voice. The sink is running - she’s filling one side of the sink with hot water, squirting dish soap under the faucet so the water suds up. 

“She’s not from around here,” Sharon says. 

“That much I gathered,” he says. “She says she used to be a cop too? She had your job before you?” 

“We used to work together,” Sharon confirms. 

“She was that lady that you hated right?” Ricky says. The sink shuts off and they glance up at Brenda who still has her back to them, scrubbing down a cookie sheet with the rough side of the sponge. 

Sharon is saved by her phone ringing. She stands, finds her purse and opens it. Brenda watches her, pushing hair out of her face with wet hands and says, “Work?”

“It’s Mike,” Sharon says and slides the bar across the bottom to accept the call. “Raydor.”

Mike gives her some information about blood typing, about the bullet casings collected from the scene. Two different guns - one they’ve matched but one doesn’t have any hits in their database.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she says. “Good work. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Gonna be one of those weekends,” Ricky says when she hangs up. 

“You can come with me,” Sharon says. “Mostly we’ll be waiting for lab results, so it might not be too bad.” 

“And you,” Ricky says, looking at Brenda who is rinsing the cookie sheet. “Do you work all weekend, too?”

She puts the cookie sheet into the dish rack and bats her eyes at him. “Not anymore!”

“Brenda is a bureaucrat now,” Sharon says, though she’s teasing. 

“I am not,” she says. “I still do interrogations, just not as much as I used to. But I do ‘em.”

“Ricky works at Stanford,” Sharon says. 

“He said that,” Brenda says, latching onto the change of subject. “Computers.”

“I.T.,” Ricky says. “Not quite as fascinating as catching murderers, but it keeps me busy.”

“Y’all want some coffee? I could put some on.”

“There’s some decaf in the cupboard,” Sharon says.

“Why even bother?” Ricky asks.

“I’d like to get some sleep tonight,” Sharon says. “Brenda, honey, leave it. I can finish it up later.”

“I’m almost done,” Brenda says. “You two just visit, okay?”

They sit on the couch while Brenda makes the coffee, finishes loading the dishwasher and clearing the table. They chat a little, make tentative plans to see Emily’s new production. Sharon asks if he’s been keeping in contact with his dad and Ricky says no, Jack doesn’t call.

“What does dad think about all this?” Ricky says, tilting his head toward Brenda. 

“I don’t tell your father anything,” Sharon says. “None of his business.”

“He’d get a kick out of it, I bet,” Ricky says.

“Why?”

“You know why,” Ricky says.

Jack had been the one to leave, initially, but Sharon had been the one to never let him come back. He’d tried a few times, usually when he was down on his luck and out of money but she’d never let him and he’d gone around telling all of their mutual friends and acquaintances that Sharon had “gone dyke” which had been humiliating and offensive. Not the idea of being gay or two women in love, but the idea that not wanting Jackson Raydor was caused by anything other than Jack being the world’s most colossal asshole.

Sharon doesn’t dignify her son’s glib remark with an answer, but rises and leaves him alone to help with the coffee.

“How’s it goin’ mama?” Brenda asks, pulling down mugs. 

“Hmm,” Sharon says. She pours coffee and carries two mugs back to the living room and Brenda trails uncertainly with the third. 

“I put clean sheets on the bed,” Brenda says. “In Rusty’s room, so that’s all yours.”

“No way,” Ricky says. “I can take the couch, it’s fine.”

“You’re about five inches too tall for this couch,” Brenda says. “Don’t be silly. I don’t mind. I insist.” 

“She insists,” Sharon says. 

“I guess I am a little tired,” Ricky says. “Long drive.”

“I’ll just go get some things out of there and then it’s all yours,” Brenda says. She sets her mug down on the coffee table and then picks it up just long enough to slide one of the coasters under it and smiles at Ricky, lets the smile linger long enough to look at Sharon too. “‘Scuse me.” 

“Mom,” Ricky says. “She’s kind of a hoot.”

“She’s going through a rough patch,” Sharon says. “It seemed the kind thing to do. Let her stay here.”

It feels dishonest to say it. To tell her son that Sharon is the one being kind, that Brenda is the only one in need. 

“She wears a wedding ring,” Ricky points out.

“She’s still married,” Sharon says. “Speaking of - how is… Claire? Carrie?”

“Clara,” Ricky says. “Mom, that was like eight months ago.”

“Well you never let me meet any of these girls,” Sharon says, her nails tapping on her ceramic mug.

“They’re not… I haven’t found anyone worth introducing to you,” he says. 

“Maybe one day I’ll just show up on your doorstep,” Sharon threatens, wiggling her eyebrows. 

Ricky laughs. “And miss work? Yeah right.” 

oooo

Ricky goes to bed first. Brenda smiles at her in the low lamp light, her little heart shaped face relaxed and open.

“He’s a nice boy,” she says. “You done good, Captain.” 

“I hope so,” she says. 

Sharon cleans up the coffee pot, the mugs, loads the dishwasher and fills the trap with liquid detergent to run it. She clicks it closed and turns to see Brenda carrying a pillow and a folded blanket to the sofa. 

“It’s fine,” she says when she sees Sharon’s torn expression. But Ricky’s a hard sleeper and will sleep later than either of them. Determined, she starts the wash cycle, a noisy process and shakes her head.

“He won’t even know,” Sharon says. 

Brenda’s cheeks flush with color and they make up the couch anyway, just for show, with shaky hands. 

It feels illicit with someone down the hall. The way they walk on careful feet, the way she keeps the door handle turned all the way until the door is closed so the latch clicks quietly into place. Brenda still has on her work clothes, a bright red sheath dress and she carries her pajamas in her arms, the things she’d gotten from Rusty’s room before Ricky had retired for the night. 

“Come here,” Sharon says. “I’ll do your zipper.” 

They’ve been sharing a bed for weeks but they seldom come to bed at exactly the same time. On paper, they work the same hours but in practice Brenda is almost always asleep when Sharon finally comes to bed and Sharon, more often than not, wakes up alone. 

Brenda’s zipper slips down easy, reveals the band of her nude bra and the top of her black panties. Sharon doesn’t linger. 

“I’m going to brush my teeth,” Sharon says. She locks herself in the bathroom, pulls the collar from her t-shirt away from her neck. Washes her face with cold water and uses her washcloth to wipe the remnants of her make up away - the mascara that gathers under her eyes and makes her seem old and tired. Brushes her teeth, uses the toilet, washes her hands.

While Brenda takes her turn in the bathroom, Sharon changes out of her jeans into softer pants and loses her bra all together. She’s already in bed when Brenda comes out in her tank top with the glittery strawberries and her little pink shorts. Like she’s a cheerleader at a slumber party, like she’s not on the wrong side of forty. 

“Thank you for indulging my crazy today,” Sharon says, taking off her glasses and placing them carefully on her nightstand. The world goes blurry and soft. 

“I know how it is,” Brenda says, fiddling with the clasp of her watch until it comes undone. She sets it on the nightstand. “Families are tricky things.” 

She clicks off the lamp and slips into bed. Sharon reaches up to turn the other one off and they settle, the darkness surrounding them. She hears Brenda sigh and shift and roll to face her. 

“This is cozy,” she says.

“Mmm,” Sharon says. “I’m glad you and Ricky get along.” 

“I bet you were a good mom,” Brenda says. Her voice has taken on that quality that Sharon loves, that hazy, soft tone that she only ever hears when they’re in bed together, in the dark. 

“When I was pregnant with Emily, it was easier. I only gained twenty-five pounds, I was healthy, it was a long labor but I had her naturally. But with Ricky… with Ricky I was sick the whole time. I gained almost forty pounds, I was put on bedrest for several months and when he was born, his umbilical cord was wrapped around his shoulder and every time I pushed, he hit his head my pelvic bone and eventually they told me I needed a cesarean section because they were concerned about his heart rate.”

“Oh my,” she says. 

“I knew Ricky was going to be my complicated child,” Sharon says. “He made a complicated entrance into the world.” 

“I was the complicated child, too,” Brenda says. She slides her hand across the space between them and touches just the edge of Sharon’s pillowcase. 

“When Jack left, he told me… well one of the things he told me was that he couldn’t stand the sight of my scar,” Sharon says. “Which I thought was particularly unkind.” 

“Men are scum, they really are, I’m thinkin’ of giving up on ‘em all together,” she says. 

Something twinges low in Sharon’s stomach, something warm that spreads.

“It’s a thought,” she says.

“How old were they?” Brenda asks. “When your husband left?”

“Emmy was five. Ricky was three.”

“Jesus.” Brenda fingers the hem of the pillowcase and gives it a little tug. Sharon rolls her head a little closer to Brenda’s hand. “How did you do it all on your own?”

“I dunno,” Sharon says. She feels the long day, all the nervousness and stress catching up with her and she’s getting sleepy. “You don’t have a choice. You just do it.”

“I want to meet the other one,” Brenda says. “Emmy. Emily. I want to meet your family, Sharon. Would that be okay?”

“Sure,” she says. “Sure. Ricky and I were talking about seeing her dance. Maybe we could take a weekend and go.”

“Go?”

“New York,” Sharon says. “That’s where she dances.”

“Impressive,” Brenda says. Her hand moves closer again and Sharon feels a little tug against her scalp. Brenda is touching her hair. Sharon’s toes curl against the mattress. 

Something clanks on the other side of the door and Brenda startles, withdraws her hand.

“Just the dishwasher,” Sharon says. “It’s okay.”

Brenda tucks her hands under own pillow. “Can I see it?”

“The dishwasher?” she asks, confused. 

“Your scar,” she says, “From Ricky.”

An odd request. And yet, Sharon feels compelled to give Brenda what she wants. It’s how Brenda gets by in this world, that’s no secret, but Sharon isn’t immune to her charms. 

“It’s just… it’s nothing now. Just a white line after all these years.” But she still pushes down the blankets and pulls up her t-shirt while Brenda leans over and turns on her lamp. 

It’s different when the light is on. Something changes and Sharon feels vulnerable and a little ridiculous. She feels self-conscious about her stomach, how soft it is, how her hips have spread in the last few years. She hesitates in pushing down the tops of her pants but Brenda’s gaze is so intent, so dark and severe that Sharon does it, hooks a thumb under the elastic band and tugs. 

“Ooh,” she says, a noise of frustration. “My glasses are on the coffee table.” And then she reaches out and drags her finger along the light, curved scar, just above where Sharon’s pubic hair starts and it’s all too much. She wants to curl up, to shove Brenda away, to grab her wrist and drag her closer but Brenda leans in squinting and says, “You can’t even hardly see it!” 

“Brenda,” Sharon whispers.

“Why men are so fussy about women’s bodies I will never know.”

“Brenda, enough,” Sharon says, because Brenda’s fingers are still on her skin. 

“Like if we’re not perfectly smooth and unblemished and flat and tucked they just fall all to pieces,” she says. But she pulls her hands away. “You have just the most beautiful skin, Sharon. How do you do that?”

She pulls her t-shirt down, crosses her arms across her chest. “Good genetics, I guess.” 

“Stayin’ out of the sun, too, I bet,” Brenda says, flopping back to her side of the bed. “I’m sorry, honey, I oughta let you sleep.” 

Sharon’s heart is racing, pumping adrenaline through her. She’ll never sleep now. 

“Always happy to satisfy your curiosity, Chief,” Sharon says. 

Brenda turns out the light. Darkness once more.

oooo

Brenda is asleep beside her when Sharon wakes up which is unusual. It’s still early, not yet seven. Sharon pulls on her robe and opens the door to the hall, creeps out and is pleased to see that Rusty’s door is still closed. 

That is until she realizes she can smell coffee. She didn’t set it up the night before because it’s the weekend and Brenda never, never sets it up. She always stumbles out, bleary eyed, and staggers her way through making it in the morning. 

“Good morning, mother,” Ricky says, sipping his coffee. He’s sitting at the bar in the kitchen with his mug and his laptop.

“Ricky!” she says, reaching up and smoothing her hair. It’s a nervous tick, she knows, but she’s nervous now. “You’re up so early!”

“I am,” he says. “I’m usually at work by 8:30 so my internal clock just woke me right up.”

Sharon laughs and it sounds out of sorts even to her own ears. 

“I got up to use the bathroom and saw that the couch was empty,” Ricky says. “I thought Brenda didn’t work weekends.”

“I’m your mother, not Brenda’s,” Sharon says. “What she does with her weekends is her business.” 

Sharon glances at the couch they’d made up the night before and winces. It doesn’t even look slept it. One of them should have lied down in it before they’d gone to bed. She’s not great at deception. She hurries over to the sofa and pulls up the blanket, the sheet they’d tucked around the cushions and starts folding them. “She’s a bit of a slob,” Sharon says. 

“Quite the odd couple,” Ricky says. “You want some coffee?”

“I, uh, I have to get to the office soon,” Sharon says. “I’m gonna hop into the shower.”

He stares at her for a moment and then nods a slow nod. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” she says. 

Brenda is sitting up when Sharon comes in, closes the door a little too hard.

“What-?”

She puts a finger to her lips and shakes her head. Points to the door behind her.

“No, it’s too early for charades,” Brenda says and lies back down, pulls the covers over her head. Sharon strides over, pulls the covers back enough to see her face.

“Ricky is awake,” she says. 

“So?”

“So, I’m going to take Ricky to work with me and you need to stay in here until we’re gone,” Sharon orders.

“Oh no, I have to sleep in, how tragic,” Brenda says. “Go away.”

Sharon rolls her eyes.

“Glad you’re always willing to go along with a lie,” Sharon says. 

It’s not until they’re in the car headed downtown that Ricky says, “So are you banging her or what?”

“Excuse me?” Sharon demands, stopping too hard at a red light. They both jerk forward against their safety belts and Ricky reaches out a hand and braces against the dashboard. 

“Brenda?” he says. “Your roommate?” 

“My houseguest,” she corrects, holding onto the wheel hard. 

“I mean, wasn’t it like Christmas three years ago where you complained about her for forty-five minutes straight?” Ricky says. “There aren’t a lot of plucky southern blondes in L.A. named Brenda, so I’m pretty sure I’m remembering your seething hatred correctly.”

“I did not _hate_ her,” Sharon says. “She was difficult to work with but I had a great deal of respect for her and I have more now knowing the kinds of things she had to deal with on a daily basis.” 

“Okay, okay,” Ricky says. “I was just checking.” 

“Checking what?” she demands. 

“Mom, you haven’t dated anyone in forever! I just figured… Em and I just figured maybe you weren’t… seeing men.” Ricky shrugs. Taps his hands against the dashboard. He wears a silver ring on his thumb and his knuckles look just like Jack’s hands but slimmer, like when he was young. She looks away. 

How to tell her son that she hasn’t been seeing much of anyone - that life without Jack meant life without anyone? That she’d chosen loneliness and isolation over getting hurt again. That Rusty had been the one to wake up her heart and then Brenda, odd little thing that she was, had wrenched her way in, too. 

“Would that bother you?” she asks instead though it’s not exactly what she’d intended to say. She’d meant to gently steer the conversation in another direction, toward his love life, perhaps, or into the safer waters of work or church or the weather. 

“You being gay?” he asks.

“I’m not gay,” Sharon says. “Dating both men and women does not make you gay.” It’s a touchy subject with her - she’s unlearned thinking that being anything other than straight is a sin because despite her catholic upbringing, that just doesn’t make sense to her, but after ten years in Internal Affairs, she’s had her fair share of slurs and callous names hurled at her, and most of them were about how she was an ice queen and a lesbian. She’d gotten a young officer fired for telling her that she’d needed “a deep dicking” to “bang out the dyke.” 

It had helped that he’d fired his gun into a crowd of civilians. Not good police material, after all. 

“Okay, if you were bi, then?” Ricky says. “No. It wouldn’t bother me. We just want you to be happy, you know that, right?” 

“We don’t have to talk about this,” she says.

“No, but we can. If you want to,” he says. 

“And please don’t say anything about Brenda to anyone on my team,” she says. “It’s not exactly public that she’s left her husband.”

Everyone on her team knows, of course, about Brenda after Fritz’s visit but no one has gathered up enough courage to ask her about it and she hopes they never do.

“Homewrecker,” Ricky says. 

“Ha, ha,” she says, pulling into the parking garage. 

“What about your friend Andy?” Ricky says. “Even he doesn’t know?”

“He knows,” Sharon says. “Still, though.”

Ricky holds up his hands. “Silent as the grave, mom.”

oooo

They go out to dinner - to one of Ricky’s favorite spots, a little Ethiopian restaurant on Fairfax. Ricky invites Andy along but he declines saying he and Provenza already have plans. Sharon doesn’t know whether or not it’s true, but she doesn’t press. 

“I thought you guys were friendly,” Ricky says. “I’m sorry.”

“We are,” Sharon says. “We were, it just is complicated because we work together.”

“And because of your pretty friend Brenda?” Ricky says. 

“I think Andy feels strange spending time with me and Brenda together,” Sharon admits. It’s all she’s admitting to, but Ricky still stares her down like he knows there is something more she’s not saying. She doesn’t feel obligated to explain her personal life to her son, the awkward kiss with Andy or the woman in her bed. None of it. 

“So, I’m thinking of going to Europe,” Ricky says and Sharon is so relieved by the new topic that they spend almost the entire dinner talking about where he should go, if he should bring a friend, the sights he should see. After dinner, they find a bookstore and she buys him a glossy travel guide to Europe. 

“Mom, you don’t have to buy me stuff,” he protests but he does so while thumbing through it in line to purchase, so she does buy it for him and buys a pair of reading glasses that are on display near the register. They’re a dark green with tiny pink flowers on them and come with a matching flowery case.

“Those are going to clash something awful with your hair,” Ricky says as the saleswoman puts everything into a paper bag for them. Sharon signs her name on the credit card slip and pushes it back across the desk.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the bag. 

And then Ricky gasps. “They’re not _for_ you,” he exclaims, pointing at the offending bag. “They have _flowers_ on them!”

Sharon’s stomach tingles at the memory of Brenda’s fingers skimming over the skin there, the way the ends of her blonde hair had brushed against Sharon’s hips as Brenda had peered closer to get a good look. She colors now, not at the embarrassment of being caught impulsively buying something for Brenda, but at the memory of what she’d let Brenda do. The intimate touching. She’d opened right up to Brenda. Why?

“You don’t know what it’s like to get old,” Sharon says, admitting nothing. “It’s good to have extra pairs lying around.”

Ricky rolls his eyes but stops his mother on the sidewalk outside of the shop and says, “Wait a minute, come here.”

And he slips his arms around her and hugs her tight, resting his chin on the top of her head. 

“What’s this?” she says, hugging him back, her words muffled by his broad chest. 

“You seem happy,” he says, pulling away. “I’m glad you’re happy. I thought I’d come and you’d be a big old mess.”

“I’m not happy,” she says, though she isn’t unhappy, maybe. “I miss Rusty and it was… is really difficult knowing he’s off somewhere living a life without me but I do get regular updates on his well-being and I know, intellectually, that he’s fine but it’s not right, him being away. I will be happy when he’s home and I know all my children are where they should be.” 

“I’m sorry, mom,” Ricky says.

She smiles at him, touches his scruffy face. “Having Brenda around helps. We’re just two lonely old ladies who need a little companionship. Don’t tease me anymore, please.”

“I won’t,” he says. And then he smiles. “Not to your face, anyway.”

She gives him a little shove and they move back toward the car.

“I will be telling Emily everything,” he warns.

“There’s nothing to tell!” she says. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” 

“If you want to come up north, get away for awhile, you can always come visit,” Ricky reminds her. “I have a guest room.”

“I know,” Sharon says. She won’t, though. It’s hard to get away from work and she doesn’t want to leave L.A. anyway until they have a handle on this Stroh situation. But it’s been months and the man knows how to hide, will hide until he’s ready and it just is frustrating. The waiting is exhausting. 

Brenda is sitting cross-legged on the couch watching TV and typing into her computer when they get home. The coffee table is covered with file folders and she smiles at them when they come in, her glasses pushed up onto her head. 

“Y’all just missed Gabriel,” she says. “He dropped off some files for me. Said to say hey.”

“David Gabriel?” Sharon says. She’d been surprised that Brenda had taken Gabriel along to the D.A.’s office with her after he’d been the source of the leak, however unintentional, but Brenda’s affection for the young man had been real enough, it seems. 

“Yeah,” she says. “He just needs another pair of eyes on his case. How was your day?”

“Three dead hookers,” Ricky says. 

“Hey,” Sharon says. “We don’t need to talk about that.” 

“She used to do the same job!” he says. 

“It’s better,” Brenda says, shutting the lid of her computer and setting it on the coffee table. “She can talk about it but it’s just better for everyone if she doesn’t.”

“You don’t like to hear about it?” he asks. 

“It ain’t that,” she says. “It’s just the less people who know the details of a case the better. And, you know, after spending the day looking at dead women, sometimes it’s nice to come home and leave that all behind. If you can.” 

“I don’t know how you do it,” Ricky says. “All that death. All the time.”

He moves into the kitchen and pulls open the freezer, rummaging around until he emerges with a half gallon of rocky road ice cream. Sharon watches Brenda watch Ricky, her eyes on the sweet treat in her hands. The internal battle that plays across her face. It’s good to see - like whatever was eating Brenda up inside has passed and her appetite has returned. 

Sharon goes to use the bathroom, brush her teeth, change into black yoga pants and sleeveless shirt. Brenda runs cold and so she’s nudged up the temperature a few degrees and now she’s always a little on the warm side. She even pulls back her hair a little with a clip to get some of it off her face and neck. When she comes back into the living room, Ricky and Brenda are sitting at the table with the carton of ice cream between them.

“I have an ice cream scoop,” she scolds. “I have bowls!”

“That just makes more dirty dishes,” Brenda says. “Come here.” She scoops out some of the ice cream and extends it toward Sharon.

“No, thank you,” she says. “I’ve already brushed my teeth.”

“Suit yourself,” Brenda says and eats it with some relish. 

“Mom, did you give Brenda her present?” Ricky says. Sharon flashes him a smile he knows well, a warning, a herald of wrath to come. She must still hold some weight as his mother because he looks a little afraid. But it’s too late.

“What present?” Brenda asks. She’s still got the spoon against her mouth and licks along the back of it. Sharon can’t help but watch and then, when she realizes she’s staring, she turns away to the bag she left on the counter. 

“It’s nothing,” Sharon says. “An impulse buy.”

She hands the case over and Brenda opens it and smiles when she sees what is inside.

“Oh, look how darling,” she says. “Little flowers.”

“You, uh, couldn’t find yours,” Sharon says. Brenda glances up, her brow furrowed. “Last night.”

“Oh, right,” Brenda says. She puts them on and looks down at her spoon. “These are strong!”

“That’s good, right?” Ricky asks. 

“Yes, honey,” Brenda says. “Us old ladies need all the help we can get.”

Sharon snorts.

“Don’t snort laugh at me, I hate that, you know it,” Ricky says, but he smiles. 

They spend the rest of the evening with a movie on the television. Ricky pays more attention to his phone than the plot but it’s still nice to sit all together. Brenda sits next to Sharon on the couch, her feet tucked up and under her, the cashmere blanket she keeps on the back of the couch is spread across both of their laps. 

It’s hard to focus on the movie because she can’t stop thinking about the way Brenda so easily reaches across the mattress at night to touch her hair, or her fingers or nudge her in the leg. It’s all easy for Brenda - she needs comfort and so she reaches out for it. But for Sharon, it seems like such a great divide. Six inches on the couch may as well be six miles.

“Stupid son of a-” Ricky mutters and then cuts himself off. Sharon looks at him and he shrugs. “Candy Crush.” 

“Sweetheart,” Sharon says. “Darling. My loving son whom I love so much.”

“What?” Ricky says suspiciously.

“I know that you love me but I also know that you have friends still here in Los Angeles and if you wanted to see them this evening, you wouldn’t wound me too badly,” Sharon says. 

“It is Saturday night,” Brenda chimes in. 

“Oh,” Ricky says. “Are you sure?”

“We can have breakfast before you leave tomorrow,” Sharon says. “Unless you want to stay here and finish watching this Lifetime movie with us.”

Ricky stands, tucks his phone into his pocket and leans over to kiss his mother’s cheek. 

“Bye,” he says. “Bye, Brenda.” 

“Have fun,” Brenda says, giving him a little wave. 

“I’ll try not to wake you up when I come back,” Ricky says, crossing his arms. 

“Oh,” Brenda says. “Don’t, uh, don’t worry about that.”

“Okay,” Ricky says. “Bye ladies!”

Brenda glances at Sharon and moves the blanket away. “I’m gonna get some wine. You want some?”

“Yes,” she says. “Yeah.” 

“Oh good,” Brenda says.

oooo

She’s dreaming. The moment she realizes it, she wakes up. She’d been running from something, scared and stumbling around dark corners, help always just out of reach. But now she’s here in bed, panting and her heart is racing. She pushes herself up on her elbows and takes a deep breath. She feels a little sweaty, her hair damp around her neck. 

“You okay?” 

Brenda sounds sleepy but she flings out an arm and makes contact with Sharon’s shoulder and gives it a tired pat. 

“Just a bad dream,” she says. “Sorry.”

“You wanna talk about it?” Brenda’s hand squeezes her shoulder and it anchors Sharon. Her heart slows down. The feeling of the dream, the immediateness of the fear ebbs away.

“No,” she says. 

“You want to cuddle?” Brenda asks. 

She’s still mostly asleep, Sharon thinks. The question sounds innocent enough. She looks over at Brenda and her eyes are still closed, mouth relaxed, hair all over the place. When Sharon doesn’t respond, Brenda’s eyes pop open and she smiles indulgently. “Come here.” 

But it’s Brenda who moves, slides right across that no man’s land and snakes her arm around Sharon’s waist. She presses her legs against Sharon’s, wriggles around until they’re all fit together snugly and Brenda’s chin is on her shoulder, her breath in Sharon’s ear. 

“Oh,” Brenda moans. “You’re so warm.” 

Sharon exhales hard and is afraid to breathe back in. Afraid to move and afraid not to. 

She’s tired of being afraid. She’s tired of holding back. Why are they doing this? Sleeping next to Brenda is agony, every time Brenda reaches out and brushes against her, it’s agony, this cuddling is agony. Either they need to stop this or Sharon needs more. She hadn’t known at the start that she would want Brenda like she does but she knows now. 

“Brenda,” Sharon says. Brenda makes a little noise, a little squeak in the back of her throat but doesn’t say anything. So Sharon rolls over so they’re facing each other. Their faces are so close; they’re on the same pillow and Brenda smiles at her, a little tug at the corner of her mouth that she almost misses in the darkness. 

“It’s okay,” Brenda says. “If you want to.”

Sharon does. 

She’d been worried about how different everything might feel and it does feel different but it’s not a bad change. Everything is softer, everything tastes sweet. Brenda’s mouth is wide and relaxed and there’s not that awkward beat where Sharon is just kissing Brenda - from the moment their mouths meet, Brenda is kissing her back. It should be complicated, maybe, but it isn’t. It’s not complicated to slide her hands into Brenda’s hair. It’s not complicated to push a knee between her thighs to get closer. It’s not complicated to part her lips and press her tongue forward. 

It all happens so easily. 

And maybe they’d lie there all night kissing and petting and not talking about any of it if not for Sharon’s phone. She hears the vibration first - angry against the hard surface of the nightstand and then the ringtone. 

Their mouths make a wet pop as they come apart and Brenda giggles nervously. Like they’ve been caught.

Sharon reaches for her phone and tries not to think about how turned on she is, how uncomfortably flustered she feels. How the last time she’d kissed someone for so long without escalation, she’d been in the backseat of a car in a plaid skirt. 

“Lieutenant Tao,” she says. “What happened?” 

He wouldn’t call in the middle of the night for nothing, after all, and they don’t tend to pick up more than one case at a time unless it’s an all hands on deck situation. A dead movie star or a missing child. 

But Mike is calling because their suspect had confessed to the murders of all three of the women and Mike was handing the case off to the D.A. and she didn’t have to check in tomorrow, after all. 

“I was gonna leave a message,” he says, apologetically. 

“It’s okay,” she says, rubbing her hand along her neck. The skin stings a little from Brenda’s nails. “I was up.” 

“See you Monday, Cap,” Tao says. “Give our regards to the Chief.”

They know, they all know and Sharon feels like laughing or crying or at the very least denying it but then she talks herself down from the proverbial ledge. They know Brenda is at her condo, not that Brenda’s tongue was just in her mouth.

“I’ll pass that along,” she says. “Goodnight.” 

“Do you have to go?” Brenda asks when Sharon sets the phone back down. 

“No,” she says. “Case closed, actually.”

“Oh,” Brenda says. “Oh good.”

“Yeah,” Sharon says. 

What do they do now? Jump back into it? It feels awkward. The moment has passed, the sleepy intimacy, the stolen moment in the dark. 

“I gotta pee,” Brenda complains and then crawls out of the bed. It gives them both a moment to compose themselves, though she thinks Brenda is the smart one. She can go wipe away the uncomfortable arousal. Sharon squirms a little and tries to remember the last time she’d gotten so wet so fast. She remembers the last time she’d had sex - almost, what? Three years ago now? That’s embarrassing. She’d dated a man from her church casually for about a year. At first just coffee dates. They’d gone to a play. To the opera. A few dinners. When he’d taken her to a family barbeque, it seemed like the right time to move forward. He’d been older than her, well into his sixties and she’d invited him up for coffee after a movie one night and then invited him into her bed. 

It had been fine. No fireworks behind her eyes and she had to use lubrication from a bottle because she figured post menopause, she may need the help. But it had been nice to be touched and held. There hadn’t been a lot of pressure and she’d slept with him two or three more times before… well they hadn’t broken up exactly. He was retired and she was still heading F.I.D. and she’d been assigned to watch over Brenda. She hadn’t really had the time for him anymore. Then he’d moved out of L.A. to be closer to his grandchildren. 

She realizes even back then, Brenda had been influencing her romantic decisions. 

The bathroom door opens and she sees Brenda stand in the doorway for a moment with the light on behind her, mapping her route back to the bed before she shuts the light off and has to move in the darkness before her eyes adjust. 

Brenda gets into bed but she doesn’t lie down, she sits cross-legged on the mattress, graceful and flexible and small. 

“I thought we could just be friends,” Sharon says. “I really did.”

“You and I have never been friends,” Brenda says. She sounds resigned, like it’s something she’s been holding in for a while. 

Sharon knows that’s true, now, too. No matter how hard they’ve been trying. 

“You have to understand that this is all very new for me,” she says.

“Me too,” Brenda agrees.

“And you’re married,” Sharon says. 

“Yes,” Brenda agrees. “I still am.” 

“So what do we do?” Sharon says. “What should I do?”

“Get some sleep,” Brenda says. “And if you have another nightmare, well, I’m right here.”

Sharon closes her eyes and swallows. She reaches across the space between them and Brenda’s hand meets her half way. 

“Okay,” she whispers. 

“Okay, then,” Brenda agrees. 

oooo

Brenda offers to move back into Rusty’s room when Ricky leaves but Sharon doesn’t accept. 

They catch a case where they find a dead body in a safe and Sharon doesn’t come home for two days. She doesn’t see Brenda hardly at all except for when she stops by the murder room on her lunch break to drop off a sandwich and a change of clothes for Sharon. 

“Will I see you tonight?” Brenda asks. 

“I don’t know,” Sharon says. “We have a body, and about twelve people with motive, four of which have already confessed to shoving him in there.” 

Brenda pulls a bottle of water out of the paper sack she’d brought with her and sets it on Sharon’s desk next to the wrapped up sandwich. 

“Sorry,” Sharon says. “Forget it. You want to stay and eat?”

“I can’t,” Brenda says. “But call me if you need anything else. I brought your suit like you asked and a pair of jeans just in case, okay?” 

“Thank you,” she says. “Thanks.”

“See you soon,” Brenda says. Most of her squad is out but Sharon watches Brenda pass through the murder room, she watches Julio stand and extend his hand toward his former Chief. Brenda takes it and holds it between both of her hands. Mike stands too and when Brenda lets go of Julio, Mike leans in and kisses her cheek, gives her a real hug. Mike is so tall that Brenda practically disappears into his embrace, but Sharon can still see Brenda’s mouth move toward Mike’s ear. He nods and looks up at Sharon, nods again. 

Then Brenda is gone. 

Sharon eats three bites of the sandwich but she’s too tired to be hungry. She wraps it back up, tosses it in the refrigerator in the break room before going to the ladies room to change clothes and splash water on her face. In the bag with her clean underwear and clean bra, Brenda had also tossed in a pack of make up remover towelettes, Sharon’s mascara, a tube of dark lipstick, her foundation and a black eye pencil that Sharon thinks actually is Brenda’s but she’s still grateful. She cleans her face, changes her clothes. She’s still tired, but she doesn’t feel grungy. She drags the black pencil along her eyelids, puts on the dark lipstick and stands back. 

This is how Brenda sees her, she thinks. Dark and severe. This is who she was when she met Brenda. Expensive suits and red lips. 

She doesn’t go home until they send three of the four suspects through booking. Hobbs says the word conspiracy and Sharon is happy to let the D.A. sort it out in trial. It’s not a win for the books or anything, but it means she gets to go home. 

She gets home at 12:23am and pours herself half a glass of white wine. Stands in the kitchen drinking it feeling too wired to sleep but too tired to watch television or eat food. She takes off her shoes, leaves them on the rug in front of the sink. Opens the refrigerator just to see what is inside but quickly changes her mind and closes it only to find Brenda has opened the bedroom door and found her. Her long hair is piled up on her head and she’s wearing a long t-shirt and little shorts, all thigh and toned calf. 

Today is the first day of June. She wonders what Rusty will do with his break from school. Get a job? Does he miss her. Does he miss home?

Brenda takes the mostly empty wine glass from her and sets it on the counter. Takes her hand and leads her to the bedroom. It’s dark in there, but they’d left the kitchen light on and it spills down the hall, into the room. Brenda undoes the button on her coat and pushes it off. Tosses it into the hamper for dry cleaning. Reaches for her waist.

“I can do it,” Sharon says and unbuttons the pants. Brenda still helps push them over her hips and Sharon steps out of them. While Brenda is putting the pants into the hamper, Sharon pulls the shirt over her head and leaves it lying on the floor. Crawls into bed in her underwear and her bra - it’s a push up bra, something she usually pairs with a more demure neckline than the v-neck shirt she’d worn with her suit. She’d been self-conscious about her cleavage all day. 

Brenda gets into the bed too, rolling against Sharon so they’re tucked together neatly. Brenda’s arm across her bare waist, her foot moving up and down Sharon’s calf. 

“You must be so tired,” Brenda says. 

She wants to kiss Brenda, to slip her hands underneath that big t-shirt she has on, to hook her hand under Brenda’s knee and pull but Sharon is tired, so tired that before she does any of that, she falls asleep. 

oooo

They only kiss at night in bed. 

Brenda fingers catch in Sharon’s hair, and the little pain she feels at her scalp only makes her press her body forward, only makes her want more. Brenda gets her fingers free and slides them along Sharon’s neck, down to where they drag along her collarbones but there they stop. Or she’ll smooth her palm down Sharon’s bare arm or she’ll clutch at Sharon’s hip but they don’t wander out of bounds. 

It’s just kissing, it’s only ever at night in this bed, and Brenda never asks for more. 

She takes Sharon’s concerns about her marriage seriously. While this is certainly not being faithful, Brenda can at least in good faith know she hasn’t had an affair. If the divorce gets nasty, she’ll have that.

Sharon feels dizzy when she breaks the kiss. But they have to stop, they’ve got to. 

During the day, when they’re pouring coffee into mugs or throwing things last minute into their purses, when they’re riding the elevator down to the parking garage like roommates, it’s all just pretending. Two friends, two professionals, two humans sharing a space and nothing more. 

Sharon hears herself gasping, trying to catch her breath, but Brenda’s mouth just slides down to her neck, all teeth and tongue and spit. Brenda has managed to get a hand under her shirt and her fingers are hot against the concave line of her waist. Sharon wants more contact, more skin touching skin and she arches, throws her head back to give Brenda better access. 

She wants to stop and she doesn’t. She feels light headed from being touched, from someone paying her this kind of attention, but when she tries to imagine the next step, she feels frozen. When she takes a shower, now, she touches herself and imagines it’s Brenda, tries to imagine doing what she does to herself to someone else. Masturbation as practice, but here, with Brenda wrapped around her, she’s so scared that she won’t be any good at it. 

Brenda pulls away, pushes up onto one elbow and looks down at her. 

“You okay?”

They don’t usually talk to each other - it always breaks the spell. 

“Fine,” Sharon says.

“Your whole body just tensed up,” Brenda says. “Did I hurt you?” She reaches out and touches the spot on Sharon’s neck where she’d been worrying the skin with her teeth. Not hard enough to make a mark, though.

“No,” Sharon says. “I just…” 

Brenda leans in when Sharon can’t find the words and presses a kiss to her lips. It’s chaste by comparison. Meant to comfort, not rev her up again. Sharon kisses back. 

“I guess I just think maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” Sharon says when Brenda pulls away. 

“Oh definitely not,” Brenda agrees, which surprises Sharon. She thought that saying that might hurt Brenda’s feelings, but Sharon always opts for honesty if possible. It always feels kinder, in the end. “If it’s any consolation, I feel sick inside about it.”

“Really?” Sharon asks. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, tugs her t-shirt back into place and puts a little distance between them. It doesn’t stop the longing but it makes it more manageable, anyway. 

“The papers are getting delivered to Fritz on Friday,” Brenda says. “I’ve been sitting on them for awhile but every time I try to picture goin’ back to that life I just… I can’t do it. I can’t go back. And I know that even if I don’t stay here, I’m never going back there.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sharon says. And she is - ending a marriage is a big choice and a big, public failure and she feels badly for Brenda. Jack had been the one to leave, the one to mess up. Everyone had taken Sharon’s side, there’d been no question. But when Fritz is malicious, he does it in private. Brenda’s reputation is already rocky at best. They will say she drove him away, left him behind. That she was a terror. That they didn’t know why Fritz stayed as long as he did. 

“He’ll be mad,” Brenda warns. “He might make a scene.”

“Then we’ll go,” Sharon says. “Stay somewhere else. Leave town for the weekend.”

“What if you get a case?” she says.

“What if I don’t?” Sharon retorts. 

Brenda shakes her head. “I can’t keep running.” 

Sharon can’t tell her what to do and so she doesn’t. She fluffs her pillow, flips it over to the cool side and lies back. 

“I haven’t-” Brenda starts and then stops again. “Never mind.”

“What?”

She lies back too, stares at the ceiling. The sun will be up soon - they’ve got to start getting more sleep. 

“I haven’t ever done any of this before,” Brenda says. “But I think I could be good at it. Maybe not the first time, but I can get better.” 

“Oh god,” Sharon says. “I worry about it too. About being, um, not good.”

“You’re good,” Brenda says. “Already.”

Sharon squirms.

“I think about it all the time,” Brenda confesses. “I think about you all the time.” 

And then they’ve surged back together, kissing again.

When Sharon’s alarm goes off only a few hours later, she looks at herself in the bathroom mirror and her mouth seems swollen and red. She’s got a mark at the base of her throat where Brenda’s enthusiasm had carried her away. Even though they’d eventually tired themselves into sleep, tangled together, her body is still thrumming and sensitive and it takes her about thirty seconds with the hand held shower nozzle to get herself off. 

God. 

She sprays herself in the face with the warm water and puts the shower head back in its holder. 

After the shower, wrapped in her towel with her hair dripping down her back, she cleans the fogged mirror off with the hand towel and looks at her reflection. It’s distorted by water droplets and the fact that she’s not wearing her glasses, but she still can see herself, her tired expression, the dark circles under her eyes, the skin that’s growing loose at her jaw, the wrinkles at the corners of her features.

She’s picked a bad time to fall in love. Well past her prime. She wishes Brenda could have known her when she was younger, slimmer, had perkier breasts, tight skin, more energy, fuller hair. She thinks about the best sex she’d ever had with her husband. A weekend trip to Vegas after they were married but before she’d gotten pregnant with Emily. During the summer when Jack wasn’t in classes. They’d been young and horny and it was before he’d started getting so drunk all the time that it affected his performance in bed. 

It was one of the few times she hadn’t faked it just to get him to roll off of her. That’s her best sex memory - not faking it for once.

She’s still dripping onto the bathmat when she wonders for the first time if 58 is too old to realize that you might be gay. 

It’s a thought she carries around with her all morning and then well into the afternoon. Not the word lesbian, not that she’s gay, just the little phrase “ _might be gay_.” She pours herself coffee in the break room and thinks, “ _Good morning coffee, I might be gay_.” 

She sits down with Amy to talk about about her upcoming performance evaluation and they schedule it for June 18th, a Thursday, and she tells the square in her day planner, the square with the 18 on it, “ _I might be gay_.” 

When Taylor comes down to get her opinion on budget allocations, she takes the folder from him, promises to look it over before she leaves for the night and tells his retreating back silently, “ _Oh, also, I might be gay_.” 

She thinks about what Brenda said early on, that straight people never worry over whether or not they’re straight and it wasn’t something she thought much about when she was young, but she did worry about whether or not she was being a good enough Catholic and she wonders now if that wasn’t the same thing in the end.

oooo

Brenda says she won’t be home until very late and Sharon thinks it’s just as well. They could use the space. She tells Sharon they have a big trial coming up at work and they’re doing prep but Sharon knows that’s total bullshit. It’s the Friday Fritz is getting served with divorce papers. It’s the Friday Brenda is calling off her marriage. If she wants to deal with that alone, it’s certainly her own choice. 

She’s waiting for the elevator with her purse on her shoulder and her feet aching in her heels when the elevator opens and Will Pope is staring at her furiously.

“Chief!” she says, forcing a smile. 

“Captain Raydor, come with me, now,” he says, heading back toward the murder room. So much for taking off her shoes and having a glass of wine on her balcony. She follows him back to her office where he’s already thrown open the door and is standing, practically tapping his foot. She sets her bag on her desk but leaves her navy trenchcoat on. 

“What can I do for the Chief of Police today?” she asks. She glances at the clock on her wall. “At 6:45.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, am _I_ keeping _you_ from something?” he demands.

“No, sir,” she says. She keeps her tone sweet, her eyes narrow. 

“I’d like to know in what universe is it acceptable for Deputy Chief Howard to be served divorce papers in front of his entire division!” Pope booms. The only person still at their desk is Amy. At the sound of the Chief, she grabs her coat from the back of her chair and her purse from her drawer and gets the hell out of dodge. Good girl, Sharon thinks.

“Well,” she says. “I don’t work for Deputy Chief Howard nor am I the one divorcing him so what does any of this have to do with me?”

Chief Pope crosses his arms and looks at her, disbelief on his face.

“Really?” he says. “If I had to draw a line between you and Brenda Johnson, how far would I have to draw? Three feet? Three inches?”

“Is it me you’re keeping tabs on, sir, or Brenda? Because I shouldn’t have to remind you that she doesn’t work for you anymore,” Sharon says. 

“You work for me,” Pope says. “What are you doing, Sharon?”

“I don’t have anything to do with him getting served, Chief,” she says, putting her hands up. “I didn’t know he was going to get served at work.”

“But you knew he was going to get served,” Pope says. 

Sharon does nothing, just looks at him. What does he want her to say? 

He rubs a hand over his face. “Captain, is she living with you or is that some sort of horrible rumor designed solely to ruin my weekend?”

“In this building, you are my superior officer but you’re not my boss at home,” she says, picking her bag up and swinging it over her shoulder. “Good night, Chief.” She’s just about had it with Brenda’s ex-men busting her balls. 

Sharon beats Brenda home, puts on the television, opens a bottle of red wine and lets it breathe. Maybe Brenda will want some when she comes home - if she comes home. She heats up leftover spaghetti and eats a bowl, puts the bowl and her fork in the dishwasher. She keeps an eye on her phone but no one calls. 

It’s after nine when the front door opens. Sharon is waiting up, sitting on the couch reading a book. Brenda comes in with her big tote bag and a cardboard box. She struggles to get her key out of the door while balancing the box on her her hip and her purse slides from her shoulder down to her elbow. Sharon watches her struggle, kick the door closed behind her. 

She drops the box to the floor, leaves her tote on the little table by the door and leans back against the wall. Tilts back her head and closes her eyes. Sharon can tell from across the room that she’s been crying. Her nose is all red, the bags under her eyes are puffy. 

“You want to talk about it?” Sharon says, standing and walking to the kitchen. She pulls a clean wine glass from the dishrack and pours a glass of merlot, carries it over to where Brenda is still slumped against the wall. She peers down into the box - it’s an assortment of things. Mostly bathroom things, it looks like, the rest of her cosmetics, a box of tampons - interesting - a jewelry box, and what looks like… is that an urn? 

Brenda opens her eyes, takes the wine. 

“No,” she says. 

“Do you still menstruate?” Sharon asks. 

Brenda tilts her head, gives her a confused expression. “What?”

“Tampons,” she says. “In your box.”

“No,” Brenda says. “Well, sometimes. Mostly, no. I think I’ve stopped. I haven’t had a period in… I dunno, six months?” She shakes her head. “Then as soon as I’m convinced I’m past it, I’ll get another one.”

“I’d heard-”

“Never mind what you heard, Sharon,” Brenda snaps and drinks her wine.

“Come sit down,” Sharon offers. 

“I have more stuff in the car,” Brenda says. “And I parked on the street so I’d rather not leave it.”

“Okay,” Sharon says. “I can help. I’ll help. Let me put on some shoes.” 

She pulls on her soft boots, the kind lined with wool. They’re the expensive ones and she hadn’t bought them but Emily had left them one Christmas and they’re the same size. She keeps them for around the house. 

They ride the elevator down with Brenda holding her keys, sniffling a little. Sharon puts a hand on her back and steers her out when the door opens. Brenda’s red Prius is in a pretty good spot, close to the door. Someone must have just pulled away as she drove up to get a spot like that. Sharon can see now that the back is crammed full of things - clothes and shoes and an old quilt. A few of those black plastic trash bags. The back seat is full of cardboard boxes of books. 

“It’s funny,” Brenda says, opening the hatch to the back. “I went over there and he told me how blindsided he was but when I went in, he’d already packed up most of my things.”

“He’s just embarrassed it happened at work,” Sharon says.

Brenda jerks her head up. “How do you know it happened at work?”

Sharon shrugs. “Where else would he be?”

“Oh,” Brenda says. She shakes her head. “I thought maybe…”

Sharon feels bad, guilty. “Chief Pope came to see me,” she admits. 

“Why?”

“He heard about Fritz getting served,” Sharon says. “He heard about you staying here.”

“From who?” she demands.

Sharon knows who - while her whole team knows about Brenda but only one person has motive to have hard feelings about it. She doesn’t want to believe Andy is telling her secrets but she’s known him a long time and knows how he gets when he’s angry. Petty and traitorous. Apparently Brenda does too because she rubs her forehead and says, “Lieutenant Flynn.”

“Come on,” Sharon says, reaching for a trash bag. “Is this all clothes?”

“Most of it,” she says. It takes three trips but they haul everything up and pile it in the living room. Sharon collapses into the armchair - Brenda looks at the pile and starts to cry.

“Oh,” Sharon says. “What can I do?”

She shakes her head, wipes away under her eyes with her hands. 

“Nothing,” she says. And then, “Do you mind if I sleep in Rusty’s room tonight?”

Sharon does mind. She minds a great deal. The idea of Brenda pulling away just as Sharon feels like she’s waking up for the first time in forever is terrifying. 

But of course, she says, “I don’t mind.” Smiles at Brenda who nods, obviously relieved. 

She even goes in and puts fresh sheets on the bed while Brenda hauls everything from the living room down the hall and piles it up into the one empty corner of the room. 

Sharon goes back to the sofa, picks up her book. She looks at the pages while Brenda changes for bed, while Brenda slips into Sharon’s bedroom to get her toothbrush, wash her face, use an elastic to twist her hair high up onto her head. Brenda is already so deeply inside her own thoughts that she just seems to drift around, drift down the hallway. Sharon can see that the light goes off but the door doesn’t close.

She doesn’t even say goodnight.

Sharon locks up, turns off all the lamps and the recessed lights in the kitchen. She hesitates at the door to her room, listening hard down the hall. Maybe she’ll hear snoring or tossing or crying or something, but it’s quiet enough that she worries Brenda will hear her standing there, hovering. 

She leaves her door open too, just in case. Should any strays wander in during the night.

oooo

Sharon wakes up and the light coming in through window is dull and grey. June is her least favorite month in L.A. due the marine layer that sits heavy over the city and doesn’t burn off until late in the afternoon. June gloom, they call it. She certainly feels gloomy. 

Surprisingly, Brenda is awake when she manages to get herself out of bed and pointed toward the kitchen. She’s sitting on the couch, her hands wrapped around a mug. It isn’t coffee, but tea. There’s a string from a tea bag hanging out the side of the mug and Brenda gives her a smile when she sees her, though her eyes are still watery and red. 

“Hey,” Brenda says and then, “You look real pretty in the mornings, Sharon. Did I ever tell you that?”

“No,” Sharon says.

“Not everyone wakes up pretty,” she says. “You have a gift.”

“Thank you,” Sharon says. Compliments make her uncomfortable, she’d learned long ago to accept them simply and not try to reject them or awkwardly give them back. “How are you this morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “I don’t sleep well alone, I think.” 

“You could’ve come to bed with me,” Sharon points out.

“I wasn’t good company,” Brenda says. “I… I’m sorry.”

Sharon feels for her, she does. But she can’t be unbiased when the end of Brenda’s marriage is overlapping so strongly with whatever it is that they’re doing. The things they do in the dark. 

“I think I’m gonna call in today,” Brenda says. “Stay in. Try to clean up that mess in your guest room.”

“Rusty’s room,” Sharon says. “You slept in my son’s room last night. Not for guests.”

Brenda looks hurt and surprised, leans back like Sharon had slapped her. “Sorry,” she whispers. But it’s important for Brenda to know that she’s not a guest and it’s important for Sharon to remind herself that Rusty is going to come back, that the life she and Rusty have carved out together isn’t over. 

“I’m going to put the coffee on,” Sharon says. She’d set it up the night before so all she has to do with push the button and the machine chugs to life. She picks up the phone from the cradle and and dials carefully.

“Yes,” she says, knowing full well that Brenda is watching her. “Lieutenant Provenza, good morning. Yes, I know what time it is. Listen, I’m feeling a touch out of sorts today. If we roll out, please give me a call, otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow, hmm? Yes, thank you. Thanks. Bye.”

She replaces the phone in its charger and then pours herself some coffee.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Brenda says. 

“I’d rather be here with you,” Sharon says. “And anyway, I have a feeling your husband is going to be skulking around my murder room all day anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Brenda says again. “I know you like to keep your professional life separate from personal stuff.”

“Yes,” Sharon says, sipping her coffee. “Look how well that’s worked out for me.” 

“Fritz told me… some things and I just,” she sighs. “I wanna do right by you. I’d like for you not to get hurt, Sharon.”

“I know what this is,” Sharon says. “It’s all right.”

“No, you don’t,” Brenda says. “That’s what I’m tryin’ to say! I don’t want this to be some sort of confused experiment. Some sorta rebound. That ain’t what I’m lookin’ for!” 

Sharon nods, tries not to get her hopes up anyway. “Okay,” she says. Brenda can tell a lie like no one she’s ever met before - Brenda is so good at lying that Sharon worries Brenda doesn’t even know when she’s doing it half the time. 

“Okay,” she says. “Good.”

“Did you get any sleep?” Sharon asks. 

“A little,” Brenda says. 

“Why don’t you go lie down for awhile,” Sharon offers. “In my bed.” 

“Do you remember when we first met?” Brenda asks. 

Sharon smiles. “Oh yes,” she says. “ _Chief_.”

“I wanted so badly for you to like me then,” she says. 

“But,” Sharon says. “I like you now, Brenda Leigh.”

“Will you come to bed with me?” she asks. Sharon nods, brings her coffee with her. The bed is only rumpled on one side where Sharon had fitfully slept and the other side is still made up, still smooth. Brenda marches right in, pulls the covers back, flops into the bed. Sharon is not quite as agile as Brenda, holds herself a little more carefully. She sits, eases her feet up onto the mattress. Sets her mug on the nightstand. It’s not bright in the room, there are no lights on, but she could try to close the blinds a little more, cut the light. She offers this but Brenda says no. Says, “This way, I can see you.” 

Sharon has questions about Brenda’s night, about what she and Fritz talked about, about some of the things he’d said to her that made her curl up and weep in another room. Sharon had always gotten along fine with Fritz, but the more Brenda had told her about the state of their marriage, the more Sharon has grown to loathe him. The way he’d issued ultimatums, manipulated her into doing what he wanted, the way he timed every AA meeting he went to with a disagreement, the way he’d guilted her in front of her parents. To Sharon, Brenda is like a beautiful, delicate bird. Like a pale, yellow canary, forever singing a lovely song. Fritz is a cave, the enclosing darkness, the danger that stops her song. Sharon wonders if Brenda is already silent, if it’s already too late. 

Brenda falls asleep quickly and Sharon takes advantage of it, runs her fingers through Brenda’s messy hair, rubs lightly at her scalp, offers what comfort she can. Sharon and her mother had never been particularly close - not like she and Emily, not like Brenda had been with Willie Rae. Sharon had loved her mother but the woman had been conservative, strict, unpredictable. Difficult to love. It had seemed to Sharon that once she’d hit puberty, her own mother had started seeing her as competition more than anything else. Had spent a lot of time reminding Sharon that the way she looked was sinful, that beauty was ultimately a punishment, that men didn’t love women who looked like whores. Part of the reason she’d agreed to marry Jack was to get away from her mother and her father who didn’t know how to save his own children from his wife. 

But she did have some good memories of her mother. She used to read to Sharon before bed, used to play with her hair just liked this as they went through whatever book and Sharon had loved it. The feeling of hands in her hair, light tugging on her scalp. She’d loved when her mother had braided her hair for school. She’d always done the same for Emily and now, she does it to Brenda who seems to relax, even in sleep. 

Sharon dozes a little too, but wakes up before Brenda. Brenda is sleeping hard now, drooling onto the pillow, doesn’t stir when Sharon slips out of the bed and into the bathroom. She starts the shower, lets the small room fill with steam before she even takes her clothes off. She takes of her earrings, sets her glasses on the counter, pulls her socks off and leaves them on the floor. She’s about to take off everything when she realizes there’s no towels - she’d pulled them down to wash them and hadn’t replaced them so she opens the door now, walks through the bedroom to the hall where the linen closet is and grabs two clean towels.

Brenda is sitting up when Sharon comes back in, towels tight against her chest.

“A shower?” Brenda says. “That sounds nice.” She yawns, rubs her face and then her hair. It’s down now, and large from Sharon’s wandering hands. She’d taken the elastic out while Brenda slept - Brenda solves that case right away. She’s looking at the elastic around Sharon’s wrist. Gives her a lazy smile.

“Come on, then,” Sharon says. “If you want.”

Had she meant to do that? Issue a blasé invitation when they’d barely gotten to second base?

Brenda isn’t one to overthink, Sharon likes that about her. She just gets out of the bed and pulls off her shirt, drops it in the hamper as she passes Sharon. She has on a bright pink bra and Sharon blinks, amused and surprised. They’ve been doing laundry together for months and she’s seen her fair share of juvenile articles of clothing - tank tops and shorts and socks with flowers on them, polka dots, bright colors. But her lingerie had always been practical, work appropriate blacks, whites, and nudes. The things she’d taken to Atlanta with her. This is new, probably hauled up in the black trash bags. 

By the time she gets into the bathroom, Brenda has pushed down her pants, underwear and all and is reaching around to undo the clasp on her bra. She seems unembarrassed - maybe she knows she has nothing to be embarrassed about. Her body is incredible and Sharon stares, still clutching the towels to her. Brenda seems to notice that Sharon has frozen up because she comes over and removes the towels from her hands, sets them on the closed lid of the toilet. 

“Don’t be shy,” she says. “We’re all friends, here.”

She’s teasing a little, but as she does so, she grabs the hem of Sharon's shirt. Sharon lifts her arms, helps navigate it over her head. Pushes down her own pants. Brenda hooks her fingers into the sides of her underwear and gives a little tug. 

“I...” Sharon says, shaking her head. “I’m not-”

“You’re perfect,” Brenda promises. 

She doesn’t feel perfect. She feels vulnerable and old. She feels like her breasts are saggy, her stomach soft, her pubic hair graying. No one had warned her that would happen. But Brenda, with her full breasts and rosy nipples, with her flat stomach and hips that swell so perfectly, she just takes Sharon’s hand and opens the shower door. Steps inside and pulls Sharon in with her. 

“Hot,” Brenda says. “Jesus.” She adjusts the knob a little and the scalding water turns warm. Sharon feels like her lungs are full of steam too, like her whole world has gone hot and hazy. She knows she’s turning red - blushing throughout the apple of her cheeks, across her collarbones, down into the valley of her breasts.

Sharon may have boldly invited Brenda into the shower, but it’s Brenda who takes charge now. She’s a good and natural leader - she has a knack for it and people want to follow her. She pulls Sharon under the spray of the water and Sharon goes more than willingly. 

“Can I touch you?” Brenda asks as the water darkens her hair. She tips her head back, getting her hair wet all the way to the roots and then turns sideways so the water hits Sharon too.

Sharon reaches out to put her hands on Brenda’s waist and says, “Only if I can touch you.” 

In clothes, Brenda is all angles, but up close she is soft to the touch. She stands still for once, watches Sharon explore. Sharon can feel each rib, the dimples of her back, round hips, strong thighs. The water makes her skin slick and Brenda’s eyes flutter closed. Sharon doesn’t want their first time to be in the shower, she’s too old for acrobatics and too nervous to figure out everything standing up, but she wants to help Brenda along, so when Brenda shifts her feet and her knees come apart, Sharon slides her leg between Brenda’s thighs. 

“Oh,” Brenda gasps when she makes contact. She’s wet and slides easily along Sharon’s skin. Sharon keeps one hand on her back and slides the other up to cup one of her breasts. Brenda sighs, moving more assuredly now, and rests her forehead against Sharon’s shoulder. 

It doesn’t take long and it shouldn’t. How much foreplay can one body stand? They’ve been at it for weeks so Sharon isn’t at all surprised when Brenda tenses up and then shudders hard against her. Sharon puts her arms around her, strokes her back. When Brenda looks at her, she looks surprised and maybe even a little embarrassed. Her leg slides down until both feet are firmly on the shower floor and when she tries to step back, Sharon doesn’t let her. She leans in and kisses her instead, lightly, and then gives her a smile. 

“Turn around,” Sharon says. “I’ll wash your hair.”

“But-” Brenda starts to protest.

“Later,” Sharon promises. And while she is turned on, wound up, and infatuated with the woman in front of her, she feels a deep sense of relief. Like they are finally in this together, finally on the same page. That if everything goes south, Sharon will always have this moment to fall back on. Brenda’s wet hair, the way she holds herself steady by putting her hand against the tile. 

It’s the first time Sharon notices that Brenda’s not wearing her wedding rings anymore.

oooo

It’s the middle of the night and she’s so tired, so worn out and sore and just wants to stay asleep. She paws at her nightstand, reaching for the ringing phone that ripped her so carelessly out of sleep. It doesn’t wake up Brenda - she doesn’t even stir. But Sharon is a light sleeper, can have her phone set to ring softly in the night and it always wakes her. She’s a mother, after all. She’s long been conditioned to hear when she’s needed. 

She expects it to be Provenza because that’s who usually calls when there’s been a murder, the only one willing to call to wake the wicked witch from her slumber in the beginning and now it’s just one more of his responsibilities. Mike will call about crime scenes, even Amy will call with updates but if there’s a fresh body, it’s almost always Provenza. 

But her phone says “Chief Pope” and isn’t that odd? She sits up, answers it feeling confused and worried. 

What if it’s Rusty? What if Stroh has found him?

“Sharon Raydor,” she says. He’ll know instantly that she was asleep - and why shouldn’t she be at three in the morning, but her voice is low and unsteady.

“Captain Raydor,” says Pope. “Thank god you answered.”

“Of course, sir,” she says. They’re not exactly in each other’s hip pocket at the moment but he is still her boss’s boss, the tip of the L.A.P.D. pyramid. She knows her place. “What’s the matter? What happened?”

She braces herself to hear Rusty’s name - she braces herself to have the worst few hours of her life.

But he says, “Brenda isn’t answering her phone. Is she there?”

Brenda is stirring - she can sleep through a lot but no this and Sharon feels her adjust, rolling over a little and their legs touch under the blankets. Brenda is bad about plugging her phone in, bad about letting it die or leaving it in the living room and they’d closed the bedroom door. Not to keep anyone out but because Sharon had pressed Brenda up against it, had kissed down her jaw line to her neck, had slid her hand up her skirt, had pushed aside the fabric of her underwear, had slipped a finger into the hot, swollen opening she’d found, had worked Brenda relentlessly until she’d come hard, banging her head against the door and then helped her to the bed and pulled her underwear down her thighs, over her knees, dropping them smugly to the ground.

Neither of them was bad at it, as it turned out. 

Now, she hesitates because this is their secret, after all, their big dirty secret but there’s something anxious in Pope’s voice. Something heavy and serious and scary.

“Hang on,” she says and then she touches Brenda’s face, cups her cheek and says, “Brenda. Wake up, it’s the Pope.”

Brenda stirs now, sits up and says, “Huh?”

“Chief Pope,” Sharon says. 

“That ain’t my phone,” she says through a yawn but takes it anyway and says, “Will?”

Sharon wants to hope that it’s not something bad but there’s no scenario she can imagine in which Pope calling her phone in the middle of the night to reach Brenda is anything other than terrible. And the next time Pope looks at her, he’ll know and she’ll be able to see it all over him. Her reputation of the ice queen dyke will be set in stone and worse than that, Brenda will be something that she and the Chief of Police will have in common. Something that they’ve shared. They’ll both know what it sounds like when Brenda’s breath hitches just so, how she looks first thing in the morning, rumpled and beautiful and glowing.

Brenda sits up and turns on the light and her face has gone ashen.

“Where?” she says. 

She can’t be sure, but it sounds like Pope’s voice on the other end says Cedars Sinai and that’s not a good sign.

“Okay, okay, yeah, I’m coming. I’ll be right there. Thank you, Will. Thank you.” 

She hangs up, looks at the phone. Sharon does too and sees that Brenda’s hand is shaking.

“Fritz was at work and he had some sort of episode?” Brenda says. “An ambulance took him to the hospital. They think it was a heart attack.”

Sharon stares at her, doesn’t know her place in this but Brenda just trembles like a bird and so Sharon does what she does well, which is react to tragedy. 

“Get dressed,” Sharon says. “I’ll drive.”

Brenda looks like she’s going to argue but then she doesn’t. Gets out of bed, walks down the hall. Comes back in with a pair of jeans and her tan sweater, the one she wears like a security blanket. Sharon has managed to put on a bra and yoga pants, slips into her coat when they’re by the door.

“Cedars?” she asks in the elevator.

Brenda nods. Her color is still bad, the skin under her eyes dark like smudged bruises. They didn’t get a lot of sleep and the guilt makes Sharon reach out to brace herself against the wall of the elevator car as it sinks. If Brenda’s not yet ex-husband dies while Sharon was in bed with her, that’s going to be a hard pill to swallow. 

How will she ever look at Brenda again? How will Brenda ever be able to be in the same room with her? 

“He doesn’t drink,” Brenda says when they’re in the car. They take the Crown Vic and Sharon doesn’t use the sirens, but she does turn on the lights. The cars in front of them move out of the way, pulling over nervously and then edging back into traffic after they’ve passed. “He runs all the time, eats far better than I do. How could he have a heart attack?”

“We don’t know anything yet,” Sharon says, tries to be soothing. “Don’t think of the worst until you talk to the doctor.”

Brenda presses her mouth together hard, her lips disappearing into a white line. Her hair is a mess in the back, knotted and Sharon doesn’t know if she looks much better. In yesterday’s eyeliner, what hadn’t been kissed off.

Oh God, what have they done?

They park in the red, leaving the lights flashing and rush into the emergency room.

Pope is there, still in his uniform. Sharon can’t remember the last time she’d seen him out of it, frankly. He’s always in the building these days. What does Will Pope have to go home to anyway? His kids are older, his wives all gone, his mistress keeping Sharon warm at night. 

Brenda seems happy enough to see him and pushes her purse into Sharon’s hands. She takes it, her fingers tight around the straps. Brenda’s concern is blinding her - she’s forgotten that Will isn’t her friend anymore, isn’t remotely on her side. Brenda sees the man from before, Sharon can tell.

But Sharon sees Chief Pope as he is, an old man about to deliver some very bad news. 

Sharon holds the purse to her chest and sinks into an empty seat. She turns her head away. 

She can’t watch this, she can’t. 

Brenda’s anguished cry breaks through the din and bustle of the emergency room and Sharon cowardly closes her eyes.


End file.
